It was not a cheerful thought, especially if he accepted Gordon’s assumption that he himself was Linda’s next quarry. Michael shivered. There was a chill draft from the door, which Gordon had left open. He turned; and saw Linda staring at him from the doorway.

Her face was alarmingly like the one he had pictured in his latest fantasy-white and drawn, with eyes dilated to blackness. The only thing missing was the knife he had placed in the imaginary woman’s hand.

For a moment they stood frozen, staring at one another. Then Michael got a grip on himself.

“You sure are wet,” he said conversationally. “You’d better come in and dry off before you catch pneumonia.”

One small, soaked shoe slid slyly back a few inches, as if bracing itself for a sudden movement. Michael didn’t stir.

“He was here,” she said. “Looking for me.”

“Yes.”

How long had she been standing out there in the hall? She must have come up after Gordon arrived, but before he left; that blind rush of his would have knocked her flat if she had been on the stairs, and there hadn’t been time for her to climb them afterward. So she had been outside the door when Gordon fled, concealed by his agitation and the coincidental darkness.

“You didn’t tell him I was here?” she persisted.

“How could I? You weren’t here.”

She nodded.

“Are you going to call him now?”

“Not if you don’t want me to.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“Then I won’t.”

The conversation was unreal. Michael couldn’t remember what it reminded him of-Lewis Carroll, something existentialist? No. It was of a conversation he had had with the four-year-old son of a friend, some weeks earlier. The directness, the repetition of the obvious…Carefully he took a step, not toward the pitiable, shivering figure in the doorway, but back, away from her.

“You might as well come in and dry off,” he said. “I’ll make some coffee. Something hot.”

“If I ran you could chase me,” she said.

“Through all this rain?” He smiled. “I’m too lazy.”

Her foot moved uncertainly. It took a step; then another and another. Michael let his breath out slowly. She was in. Safe. Now why did that word come into his mind?

Linda knew she wasn’t safe, not even there, where she had wanted to come. But there was nowhere else to go.

She stood and sat and moved like an obedient child, while Michael helped her off with her coat and took off her wet shoes and dried her feet on something that looked suspiciously like a shirt. He made coffee; his movements in the dark kitchen were interspersed with bumps and crashes and repressed exclamations. She could hear every move he made. In a place this small, he wouldn’t have a telephone extension in the kitchen, surely. The phone in the living room was on the table that served as his desk. She could see it from where she was sitting, and she watched it as if it were alive, a black, coiled shape that might spring into sudden, serpentine threat.

When he came back, carrying two cups, he was limping slightly.

“I keep stubbing my toe,” he said with an apologetic grin, as she looked at his stockinged feet.

“Why don’t you turn on the light? Or wear shoes?”

Michael looked surprised. It was an endearing expression; Linda wished she could simply enjoy it, instead of wondering what lay behind it. Probably he was surprised that she could frame a sensible question.

“I’m sort of a slob,” Michael admitted, handing her one of the cups. “See, no saucers. No shoes. They’re around here somewhere… The place is a mess. I should be ashamed, entertaining guests in a hole like this.”

“You weren’t expecting company,” she said drily. The heat of the cup, between her hands, began to seep through her whole body. Even her mind felt clearer.

“No,” he said; and then, as if anxious to change the subject, “How long has it been since you’ve eaten? What about a sandwich? Or some soup? That’s about the extent of my talents as a cook.”

“It sounds good.”

“I’ll see what I’ve got on hand.”

Another period of bumping and crashing in the kitchen followed. Linda sat back, closing her eyes, and then straightened up again. The warmth and the illusion of refuge were dangerous. She mustn’t give in to them. From now on she had to be on the alert every second. There was still a chance, slim but worth trying, because it was the only chance. But if he failed her, she must be ready to act, instantly. In self-defense.

There was a louder crash from the kitchen. Michael’s comment had a different tone, as if he were addressing another person instead of swearing to himself. Linda started, the empty cup wavering in her hands. Then Michael reappeared, carrying a plate. At his heels was another figure. Linda stared at it in comprehension and relief.

“Hope we didn’t startle you,” Michael said guilelessly. “He always comes in through the window, and through anything else that may be in his way. He just broke my last decent glass.”

The cat, a monstrous, ugly animal, sat down, so abruptly that Michael tripped over it and nearly dropped the plate.

“Here,” he said. “Take it quick, before he gets it. I was out of bread. I’m afraid the eggs got a little burned…”

There were two fried eggs on the plate. The yolks wobbed weakly, but there was a half-inch rim of brown around the whites. For the first time in weeks Linda felt like laughing.

“They look lovely,” she said, and glanced nervously at the cat, who was eyeing the plate with avid interest.

“His name is Napoleon,” Michael said. “He hates people. But I’ve never known him to actually attack anyone.”

“You don’t sound as if you like him very much.”

“We loathe each other.”

“Then why do you keep him as a pet?”

“Pet? Keep? Me keep him?”

“I see what you mean.”

She finished the eggs. They tasted terrible, but she needed the energy, in case…Lunch. Had she eaten any? Napoleon began to make a noise like a rusty buzz saw, and she looked at him apprehensively.

“I don’t know what it means,” Michael said gloomily. “He isn’t purring, that’s for sure. But he does it to me, so don’t take it personally.”

“I won’t. Michael-”

“Wait,” he said quickly. “We’ll talk. We’ll talk all you like. But not just yet, not until you’re comfortable and dry. I won’t call Gordon, not unless you tell me to. That’s a promise.”

“I believe you.”

“Thank you.” His eyes shifted. “Oh, hell, I forgot. I’m expecting someone to drop in this evening-an old friend of mine. Shall I call and try to put him off?”

“Maybe that would be better,” Linda said slowly.

“All right. It may be too late, but I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, your clothes are wet and you look like a drowned rabbit. The bathroom is through there. See if you can find my bathrobe someplace. It’s in the bedroom-on the floor, probably.”

He was smiling at her, his eyes as candid as a child’s. Linda wished desperately that she could trust him. But she didn’t dare trust anyone. The risks were too great.

“Thank you,” she said. She stood up. She reached for her purse. “I won’t be long,” she said.

Michael followed her into the bedroom, switching on the light. Like the living room, it was big and high-ceilinged. Automatically Linda’s eyes assessed the exits. One big window. No window in the bathroom, which looked as if it might have started life as a closet when the building had stood in its newly constructed elegance. An enormous carved wardrobe now served the functions of a closet. There were two doors, one into the living room and one into the bathroom. All the furniture, including the wardrobe, was battered and nondescript. Interior decoration was clearly not one of Michael’s interests. Every inch of wall space, except that which was occupied by the wardrobe and the doors and windows, was covered with bookcases; even the bed had been moved out into the middle of the floor to allow more space for books. The bed was not made.